


Gonna Raise Hell

by orphan_account



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, Mixed Media
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-19
Updated: 2011-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:00:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because they own the tournament, doesn't mean they have to behave like adults over who takes on which onerous corporate task.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gonna Raise Hell

  
'He better not leave everything to me again this year.'

David slammed the plate down hard, almost causing the rice inside to jump out and dance across the table. His face was dark with anger, and Tommy had to stifle a laugh. David refused to believe that he was adorable when he was angry, and he was clearly upset. It was safest right now to indulge him.

'Juan Carlos?'

David's brow knit further (much more, and it would be producing a scarf for winter) as he sat down opposite Tommy.

'Yes. The lazy bastard left me to do everything last year—and he wasn't even playing. I'm not being taken for a ride again this year.'

A prawn got stabbed and shoved into David's mouth, and he chewed sullenly.

'Tell him then, David. There's no point in taking it out on me—you should be telling him. '

Tommy continued to make soothing noises as he chewed. Luckily, that was usually all David needed when he was in a bad mood; over the years Tommy had honed this to perfection, which meant that he could focus his attention on the paella. (It was really rather good.)

David continued his litany of grumbles as he ate, but Tommy could see the anger slowly dissipating. He liked to think it was down to the gentle caresses of his foot under the table; it was perhaps more likely to be due to the fact that David could never sustain the height of his temper for long. He poured David another glass of wine, and tried to be supportive.

'David, for goodness sake, don't be a doormat. Tell him….otherwise I'm going to have to put up with you like this all week.'

(All right, maybe that wasn't especially supportive, but the frilly red apron David had worn to cook in was interfering with his thought processes.)

'I've tried.' Tommy could hear David scuffing the toe of his shoe on the floor under the table (he may have been nearly thirty, but at times Tommy could still see hints of the sulky teenager to whom he'd first been drawn).

'He just walks away, doesn't even let me finish.'

'I guess you'll just have to find some other way to get his attention then. Now, uh, why don't you come here and sit on my lap? I'll kiss it better.'

 

  


 

'He's such a stubborn sod. His life would be so much easier if he just did as I told him.'

Juan Carlos's foot lifted out of the water, and his toe stabbed viciously at the hot tap. The bathroom fell silent as the water stopped flowing.

'Of course it would. Everyone's is.'

Marat reached out quickly to move a candle from the orbit of Juan Carlos's outflung arm as he vented about how persistently difficult David was. He loved it when Juan Carlos got started on one of his biting character assassinations (provided that it wasn't directed at him), and sat back and let the pithy, multi-syllabic tirade wash over him. Eventually, it spluttered to a halt.

'I don't know what you're complaining about, Mosquito. You can manipulate anyone into doing anything.'

Marat's tone was mild as he swirled his hand in the suds.

'Of course I can. Which is why, when he calls into the office first thing tomorrow morning in a misguided attempt to gloat at me, he will find the promo photographers and a bunch of anarchic tennis players with whom he will have to deal.'

With a languid, supercilious smile Juan Carlos continued,

'…you missed a bit.'

His mocking air of subservience earnt Marat a damp prod on the shoulder, but he picked up the loofah and continued to scrub Juan Carlos's back.

 

  


'Devious bastard. He knows I hate photoshoots. I hate having my photo taken, and I hate telling people what to do.'

Tommy suspected his soothing noises would be getting a lot of practice as the week progressed. He tried switching to murmured encouragement as he smoothed the self-inflicted tangles out of David's hair.

'I got left organising everyone, and nobody takes any notice of me. Nico had to step in to get Feli and Milos to stop pissing about, or we'd never have got the photos taken.'

A hissed intake of breath as the hairbrush found a particularly stubborn knot had Tommy gently kissing David's temple.

'You're too sweet, David. You should stand up for yourself more.'

'Tommy, I tried. You saw me try! But I might as well have saved my breath; he blithely ignored me and arrange for me to do it anyway. '

David's bottom lip was starting to stick out, and Tommy had to fight the urge to flick at it. (Or nibble at it; now was probably not the time.)

'Juanca's always been a bossy arse. And all the while you let him push you around he will. Be feisty. You're cute when you're feisty.'

'Fuck off, Tommy. I'm not cute.'

But David was smiling as he lay down in bed. Tommy put the brush down and turned out the light.

 

 

  


 

'He's almost cute when he tries to stand up for himself. Although his attempts to be feisty were, frankly, risible—Marat, we're not watching that.'

Marat flicked idly through the channels on the TV as Juan Carlos stretched out on the sofa. He passed over a bowl of black cherry ice cream and toyed with the idea of keeping 'Toddlers and Tiaras' on just for the acerbic commentary it would provoke.

'The impudence. How could he even consider standing up to He Who Must Be Obeyed?'

The foot in Marat's lap gave a threatening twitch. He grabbed hold of it, rubbing slow circles on the sole with his thumb.

'He should learn that he cannot best me. I will always be one step ahead of him.'

'Of course you will, love. Which is why Feli is now spitting feathers at David, and not you.'

Marat smiled fondly, his fingers stretching slowly up Juan Carlos's leg. Juan Carlos shivered, and waved his spoon for emphasis.

'If David chooses not to apprise himself of the opportunities afforded him that's not my problem. Feliciano had it coming; he's been a persistent nuisance.'

'And you're happy to let him think David pushed him?'

Juan Carlos lifted a haughty eyebrow at Marat's amused expression.

'I'll have no disrespect from you, Hippo,' he teased. 'Go and fetch me more ice cream.'

'Get it yourself,' Marat retorted. 'I'm not David, you can't push me around. And bring the whipped cream, too.'

 

  


 

'I got him this time! Did I tell you I got him this time? What's next …peppers? OK.'

David dropped a packet of coffee into the trolley with a triumphant smirk, and Tommy tried hard not to roll his eyes. (He failed, but David was comparing red and green peppers, and didn't notice.)

'Only about fifteen times. In the last five minutes.'

Normally, Tommy dreaded grocery shopping—a trip to the supermarket was an exercise in restraining David from wandering off and filling the trolley with everything that caught his eye—but today he had been a model shopping companion. Admittedly, mostly so he could gloat, but Tommy supposed that was an acceptable exchange for getting done in under an hour and under €200.

'Right this very moment, he's doing a children's clinic. With Nico.' David paused in front of the ice cream freezer, drumming his fingers contemplatively. 'And you know he has an allergic reaction to children. And Nico.'

Three tubs got thrown in the trolley, and Tommy consulted the list. Almost done.

'You know he'll find a way to outdo you? There's no way he'll admit you won.'

While David was deciding between chocolate with or without hazelnuts Tommy swapped one of the tubs of ice cream for orange sorbet.

'I don't care!' David's grin was impish. 'I get the evening snuggling with you and eating ice cream, while he has to be polite to small children. And Nico. No matter what kind of spin he puts on it, I know I've won.'

 

  


 

'So you did it to confuse him?'

Juan Carlos had returned from the clinic with an energised enthusiasm, but a determined refusal to give David any credit.

'Absolutely. He expects resistance; finding none will bewilder him. It will also negate his perceived victory, but if he will persist in being stubborn I'll have to squash him.'

Marat continued loading the dishwasher, and wondered which of them was the more stubborn.

'And it definitely wasn't because he outmanoeuvred you this time?'

Ignoring the muttered protest about how handles should be pointing upwards, Marat dropped cutlery into the rack.

'Of course not. As if he could—glasses on the top shelf, please.'

Marat kept his head lowered so Juan Carlos couldn't see his sly grin, and moved the glasses.

'You're a devious, manipulative bastard, Ferrero. He won't give in—and one day, he'll get you.'

Secretly, Marat looked forward to that day. He adored his Mosquito, but was endlessly amused by how he and David bickered like a long-married couple; they always had done. David was the only one who regularly challenged Juan Carlos's autocratic assumptions, the only one (other than himself, of course) to stand up to Juan Carlos's well-intentioned tyranny. The difference was, of course, that Marat was successful.

'Not there, Hippo! Plates go on the other side; that side's for pans.'

With an exasperated sigh, Juan Carlos nudged Marat aside and finished loading the dishwasher himself.

Marat wandered off towards the living room with a whistle and a self-satisfied smile.

 

  


 

'He bloody well enjoyed himself.'

David's voice was muffled as he rummaged in the airing cupboard for clean bedclothes (Tommy was half-tempted to push him in and close the door on him).

'I beat him again, and he has to spoil it.'

An avalanche of bed linen fell without warning, smothering both of them. When they surfaced, David's hair was awry and his face was morose. Tommy brushed the hair from David's face and pulled him close.

'Doesn't really matter if he enjoyed it or not, David. You still made him do it.'

In their quilt cover nest, Tommy smiled as David snuggled closer, resting his head on Tommy's chest.

'I guess so. At least I got him to do some stuff this year, right?'

Tommy pulled David to his feet and fished a couple of pillowcases from the heap around them.

'Exactly. And it's nearly over now, we can relax again until next year.'

He was talking to a quilt cover. David had disappeared inside, muttering to himself as he pushed the quilt into the corners. All Tommy could hear was 'Hawkeye', 'whining' and 'French'.

'Still? That's still an issue?'

David emerged with a belligerent expression, and aggressively tucked hospital corners into the bottom sheet.

'Tsonga and Monfils have both been complaining all week—but no-one dares bring it up with him.'

The pillows were fluffed up and the newly-covered quilt smoothed, and Tommy was reminded of how good fresh bed linen felt.

'Well, maybe what you need is for him to raise it with them? That would soon shut them up.'

Suddenly, Tommy grabbed hold of David and tumbled them both backwards.

'Hey, you,' he murmured into David's ear. 'Why don't we mess up this bed?'

 

  


 

The best thing about being the owners was the freedom to do as they chose. Which is why the early hours of Sunday morning found them in the Ágora with a bottle of Armagnac.

It had been David's idea. He had always reacted to losses with a reversion to adolescence (be it tantrums, sulking or the propensity to drink until he was sick—occasionally all three). This time, it was subversive rebellion.

The bottle was nearly empty, and David's eyes held a dangerous sparkle. Juan Carlos hoped this meant they'd be getting up soon (he was getting too old for sitting cross-legged, his hips were singing in protest), but he suspected it meant some outlandish scheme was brewing behind those green eyes (it usually did).

'You know what we should do tomorrow?'

David's voice had a slight slur—but that was OK, because so did Juan Carlos's brain.

'Lock them in the locker room and play the match for them?' Juan Carlos's brow furrowed as he spoke. 'Especially that Monaco character. I don't know who he thinks he is, but he's got a damned nerve.'

' _And_ he's got stupid hair.' David smoothed his back from his face, sneezing suddenly as a strand tickled his nose. 'Looks like a dyslexic, one-legged bird tried to build its nest on his head. It's not smooth, and sleek, and silky like mine. It doesn't swish, or—'

He was silenced abruptly by Juan Carlos shoving him over (or he would have gone on indefinitely). They lay on their backs in the middle of the court and looked at the ribs of the ceiling.

'This must be what Jonah felt like,' Juan Carlos mused inconsequentially, before recollecting the matter at hand. 'But, tomorrow. What is it we should do tomorrow?'

It took David a few minutes to remember, but eventually he announced proudly,

'Bunk off!'

His smile was seraphic, and Juan Carlos nudged him with an elbow.

'Really? Bunk off the trophy ceremony?'

'Yeah. We've done more than enough this week.'

David upended the bottle over his glass, and pouted when he found it empty.

'True. And I'm not sure I can retain my veneer of dignified civility handing my trophy to that Argentine.'

'Your trophy? My trophy, you geriatric bastard—you couldn't even be bothered to play last year!'

'Pish. …oh. You know what else is happening tomorrow? MotoGP. Last race of the season. Right on our doorstep.'

'Well, it'd be a shame to miss that, wouldn't it?'

'Positively careless of us, really—David, did you finish that bottle, you lush?'

'No, you did. I got left with fumes. And with Lorenzo out with a …sore finger, or whatever it was, you'll have to cheer for Dani with me.'

David beamed smugly, and Juan Carlos shuddered.

'The day I cheer for Pedrosa is the day I ...I use text speak. But ...it's tempting. We don't tell anyone, we just don't turn up tomorrow?'

'Deal.'

At 3am, when Marat and Tommy had given up on waiting for them to come home and decided to round them up instead, they found them fast asleep in the middle of the court, hands still clasped in a handshake.

The next day, there were two empty seats in the corporate box, and a rMarcel looked rather surprised to be receiving the trophy from an equally bemused-looking Antonio Martinez Cascalles.


End file.
